


till morning comes

by iamhollsteintrash



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamhollsteintrash/pseuds/iamhollsteintrash
Summary: Ali owns a food truck, which is just as much work as it sounds like it is. Luckily, she works with a local bar to scoop up hungry patrons. When she knocks heads with a new bouncer, she's got to adjust the way she does business.





	1. toe to toe

“AK we’ve got 6 classic, 5 Tampa all day,” Carm yells over her shoulder, scribbling blindly on the ticket pad in front of her before ripping one off the pad and sticking it on the line above the window. Ali Krieger is sweating, but she’s always sweating, at least when she’s in the back of the Crispy Cuban – the food truck in DC she owns with her college best friend, Carm Moscato.

 

They’re set up near in Georgetown, toeing the line of the restrictions set forth by the District, which is not particularly food truck friendly. But Ali has a sweet smile and Carm has dagger eyes that could kill a man, so no one really bothers them.

 

They do most of their business in the lunch hour, set up as close to the government buildings as they can get. There’s something about pretty girls that government employees can’t seem to keep from leering at. And luckily, that translates into buying “gourmet” sandwiches and burgers from them. Carm runs the register most of the time, mostly because Ali’s handwriting is illegible on the tickets.

 

Ali’s got too much happening on the grill, the gloves on her hand sticking to her palms from overuse. She knows when the lunch rush dies down she’s got to change them before they start to tear through in the tips of the fingers. There’s a bandaid on her forearm from a burn while she was cleaning the grill earlier, still kind of stinging despite the burn cream she carefully applied. The whole truck is hot, _so hot,_ and Ali is hot, _so hot,_ and the fact that her water bottle is more than an arm’s length away is a type of agony comparable to Atlas holding the Earth on his shoulders.

 

An hour later, at the ending of a grueling lunch service, when the final suit is handed his sandwich, wrapped in wax paper with a napkin included, Ali relishes the fresh air on her skin when she opens the back door to close up shop, gulping down her third bottle of water of the service.

 

She tugs the gloves off her hands, powder from the latex sticking to her palms in a way that makes her itch to wash them. Ali tosses them in the trash can right under the shelf on the side of the truck that has condiments and napkins for the people who aren’t satisfied with her own dressing before looking up at Carm, counting money in the service window, which is open just enough for her to hear.

 

“How’d we do?”

 

“Same as we usually do,” Carm replies simply. They usually profit, not so much because the food is The Best or anything even close, but because they buy their ingredients cheap and wholesale and sell them where people are willing to pay exorbitant amounts for a quick bite. Usually the lunch rush, combined with camping between the bars and the dorms on Friday and Saturday nights, gives them enough to fund the truck and pay their respective rents at the end of the month.

 

Ali sighs, the bandana around her head slipping down towards her forehead for what feels like the millionth time today. Now that service is over, she just pulls it down around her neck. She collects the condiments and the napkins, tossing them on the counter in the back of the truck before pushing the ledge they were mounted on flush against the body of the truck and calling “Closing!” to Carm and standing on her toes to slam the cover for the window down.

 

She locks the door to the truck behind her, checking twice for fear of it flying open and letting their garbage fly out as they drive. She grabs another water bottle from the cooler beside the register before sidling into the passenger seat of the cab of the truck. “I’m pretty sure we lose money when you drink half the water bottles on this truck,” Carm says, turning the key in the ignition. She’s taken care of turning flat top off and scrubbing it down, and when the truck roars to life, Ali almost jumps out of her skin, as she does every day, before cracking the seal of her bottle and drinking it quickly. Sometimes she feels like she overcompensates after a shift, drinking too much water too fast and spending most of the time between the lunch service and the night service in the bathroom. And yet, after every lunch shift, she’s so dehydrated she goes through five water bottles just to feel normal again.

 

They borrow the kitchen and a walk in from a local bar in exchange for spending some of their late night service outside of it and splitting some of the profits. On Friday nights, when people spill out after a couple too many beers and want to grab a bite before staggering home, the Crispy Cuban is waiting. This allows for the bar to close its kitchen early but still keep customers who get hungry. The bar is owned by a very eclectic barkeep named Abby, all of six feet tall with hair cut short. Ali doesn’t get to see her when the bar is really buzzing, mostly because she’s trapped in front of the flat top and sandwich press. But when they pull up behind the bar and Ali hops out of the back, three hotel pans in various stages of fullness in hand, Abby is waiting, holding open the back door as Ali shuffles in.

 

“How was lunch?”

 

“Sweaty,” Ali breathes, hauling the hotel pans onto the counter between the industrial sized dishwasher and the sink. “How are you on this beautiful… God what day of the week is it?”

 

“It’s Friday and I’m awesome, thank you for asking,” Abby replies, grinning.

 

Ali washes her hands (finally), before leaning against the counter, pushing strands of long dark hair that had escaped her bun from her face as Carm follows her in, a similar sized stack of hotel pans in her arms.

 

Next starts the arduous process of dumping the leftover food from lunch into the trash and scrubbing out the pans, before putting them through the dishwasher and beginning the prep process for the next day. Tonight’s stock is already prepped, waiting in the walk in for them to load onto the truck.

 

Abby leans against the doorframe, head cocked as Carm and Ali go about their business quietly. Working together on a truck means figuring out how to use as little space as possible, so they’re efficient and out of each other’s space, Carm scraping food into the garbage can (her sacrifice for never actually having to do any cooking) and then passing off to Ali, who scrubs it down with soap and water before loading it in a tray in the dishwasher. When there’s absolutely no way for more to fit, Ali slams the dishwasher shut. The entire process, cleaning every hotel pan and utensil used in the service, takes about half an hour, and they take a break before beginning prep again, high fiving after a job well done.

 

“How do you guys do that so quickly? Why can you do it just the two of you in half an hour and I need three dishwashers for full shifts?” Abby asks, leading them through the kitchen and out to the bar, which is mostly empty (it is only 3PM after all). She pulls mugs from underneath the bar, rinsing them out in the sink before pulling pints for them both. She does this every day, Carm always drinks hers and Ali tends to sip. Beer before standing in an enclosed space with very very hot things is not the smartest idea. She learned that the hard way, and has a scar from her elbow to the middle of her forearm to prove it.

 

“Practice makes perfect,” Carm says with a laugh. “We do it twice a day six days a week. And anyway, it’s way faster when you don’t use plates.”

 

“Shit, that reminds me,” Ali says, jumping up. “I forgot to empty the trash.” She fast walks to the back, then out to the truck, pulling the overfilled garbage can from the back and tying the bag, silently lamenting just _how many times_ she’s going to wash her hands today and praying they don’t go raw as she tosses the bag in the dumpster.

 

Before going back inside, Ali lifts herself into the cab of the truck to rifle through her bag for the clean shirt and bandana she brought for the night service. She can’t stand to stay in a shirt stained with grease that smells like cured pork for another minute and rips her shirt off over her head, praying that no one’s walking through the parking lot, before pulling the fresh one on – which still kind of smells like cured pork, but more like laundry detergent. She ties the bandana around her wrist, a reminder to tie it around her head later, Karate Kid style, and grabs another water bottle from the cooler before returning to Abby and Carm.

 

Carm’s curls bounce when she laughs, and she’s nearly doubled over when Ali returns. Abby’s laughing too, but more softly, leaning against the bar.

 

“What’d I miss?” Ali says, pulling herself onto a bar stool and cracking the seal of the new bottle.

 

“Abby’s in _love,_ ” Carm says, mock swooning. “With a patron.”

 

“She’s not just a patron,” Abby insists, her tone verging almost on whiny. “She’s…”

 

“Is she someone who comes to the bar?” Ali asks simply. “How often?”

 

 “A couple nights a week,” Abby sighs, running one hand through her hair. “But she doesn’t even come to drink, she comes to talk to me. Sometimes she comes before the rush. I think she actually likes me.”

 

“What’s her name?” Ali asks, grinning, resting her chin on her hands.

 

“Glenn,” Abby replies, suddenly very occupied with wiping out glasses.

 

“What’s she like?”

 

“She’s nice. And hot.”

 

“The perfect combination, obviously,” Ali says, laughing.

 

They spend the next two hours or so talking, Carm eventually excusing herself to nap in the cab of the truck. Abby’s two evening bartenders, Kelley and Alex, both stunning brunettes who probably double the bar’s profits, show up at six and Ali shuffles into the kitchen to prep.

 

By the time the next day’s stuff is prepped, Ali’s hands hurt from chopping, the handle of the knife pressing down on long healed and repeatedly split callouses through her gloves. Carm has re-loaded the truck with the food for tonight and Ali can hear the bar buzzing through the kitchen door.

 

At 8:30, they high five, like they always do, with two hands. It’s, like, a tradition before service. A good luck charm. A superstition? Maybe a little bit of both. Ali learned in culinary school that chefs are some of the most superstitious people in the world, second only to athletes. So every day, she knots her bandana a very specific way and lays her knives out in the same order while Carm checks the register and gets two fresh pads for tickets. 

 

It kind of feels like getting ready for a performance, especially when they open at night. There’s an electricity in the quiet way they get ready for the bustle to come. Even when it’s slow, which it usually is when they first open up, Ali is on edge, waiting for the floodgates to open. She stretches, swinging her arms back and forth, before setting out a water bottle within an arm’s length from the flat top. She knows it will move before the end of the night, but at least it starts in the right place.

 

When they’re set, Carm carefully pilots them to the front of bar, putting it in park and moving to the back as Ali switches on the fryers, flat top, and sandwich presses. She quickly double checks that all of her supplies are in the right places – from the buns on the shelf beside the flat top to the cheese sitting close enough to the flat top to be accessible but not so close it melts to the first batch of fries sitting in the fry basket waiting to be dropped.

 

They don’t put condiments out at night, mostly because they’ve had their shit stolen one too many times, but Carm has a basket of little ketchup and mustard packets beside her to give to people who ask, and Ali has a container of napkins she pulls from with every dish. When Ali re-secures her bun on top of her head and ties her bandana in place, so tight it can’t possibly slip, she looks up at Carm.

 

“Good to go?” Carm asks, hand on the handle for the window.

 

“Right and tight,” Ali replies, letting out a deep breath.

 

It’s not like there’s a wild rush. There’s only a couple of people waiting for them to open, and after Ali fills their orders and drops the fries, they have a moment to collect themselves. A moment, so short lived, interrupted by a knock on the back door of the truck.

 

Ali looks at Carm, who tries to look out the window to see who’s there. When she can’t, Ali cracks the door, and is instantly accosted by a woman in all black, with short, dark hair coiffed high atop her head. She’s got one foot on the steps and as soon as Ali cracks the door open, she pulls the door open all the way, even as Ali actively works to keep it cracked.

 

“Can I help you?” Ali says, eyebrows raised.

 

“You can’t be here,” the brunette, all but a glorified thug, replies, her free hand on her hip. Her voice is soft, and even in one sentence Ali can hear a slightly southern inflection.

 

“What?”

 

“Can you not hear me?” The wannabe thug raises her voice. “I said you can’t be here.”

 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Ali says, trying to keep her voice even, a tactic she’s learned over time is best when people are yelling. “We’re here every single Friday night.”

 

“Well I haven’t seen you,” she replies, folding her arms.

 

“Then how damn long can you have been here?”

 

“Ali?” Carm calls from the window. “Everything ok? Do you want me to close the window?”

 

“Ali,” the brunette says, practically spitting her name. “You can’t park a food truck outside of a business. It takes business from the damn bar.”

 

“Carm can you close the window for like one minute?” Ali yells back, before turning to the brunette as she steps off the truck. “I don’t know who you are or what bullshit you’re trying to pull with us.”

 

“I’m the security specialist for this bar.”

 

“So you’re a fucking bouncer,” Ali replies, trying to keep the bite out of her laugh. “Come with me.”

 

She charges into the bar, threading through the crowds already gathering, the bouncer following close behind, a scowl sketched across her face. When Ali reaches the bar, she locks eyes with Abby, who rushes over.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

“Can you not sic your fucking bouncer on my truck?”

 

Confusion flashes across Abby’s face before she looks up, locking eyes with the bouncer who’s standing so close to Ali she can feel her breath on her neck.

 

“Shit, okay,” Abby breathes. “Okay. I should have told her. I’m sorry. I’ll explain. Ashlyn. We contract our kitchen out to them after nine, she works with us. Like as one business. So the truck is definitely allowed to be there.” She shifts her gaze to Ali, her eyes apologetic. “Ashlyn is one of our new bouncers. She didn’t know, I’m sorry Al.”

 

Ali looks back at Ashlyn, whose hazel eyes have gone wide.

 

“I told you.”

 

Ashlyn looks sheepish, running her hand through her hair.

 

“Sorry dude.”

 

“You should be. I’m going to go back to my _job_ and don’t expect to see you again tonight.”

 

Ali charges back outside, messing with the knot of her bandana as a sort of nervous habit. When she climbs back on board, Carm looks at her expectantly.

 

“She’s a new bouncer and didn’t know we contract from Abby.”

 

“Isn’t that kind of… outside her jurisdiction anyway? I always thought bouncers just kind of kicked people out.”

 

Ali rolls her eyes, tugging on a new pair of latex gloves and jerking her chin towards the window.

 

“I guess she just takes her job very seriously.”

 

\--

 

When they close up shop, after the last drunk fool staggers into an Uber, it takes only a minute to reverse the truck into position behind the bar. Then it’s the same process as before, only 12 hours later and twice as tired. When they finish loading the dishwasher, slamming it shut as it whirs to life, Ali tosses their trash in the dumpster and washes her hands with water so hot it practically scalds. Then she trudges into the bar, praying Abby hasn’t fully closed up shop yet.

 

She hasn’t, and she’s leaning over the bar to talk to some middle aged woman who looks right up her alley. Before she’s seated, Kelley is pulling a beer for her, shaking her head as Ali reaches for her wallet. It’s all formalities at this point – free beer in exchange for a chance to commiserate.

 

“Anything fun tonight?”

 

Kelley shakes her head. “Nothing to write home about. Minimal broken glass tonight. Nobody puked in the bathroom. I got six phone numbers though.”

 

“Anybody cute?”

 

“Is there ever anybody cute?” Kelley says, her laugh dry as she ties her hair in a bun on top of her head. “Although there is that new bouncer.”

 

Ali rolls her eyes. “ _Don’t_.”

 

“How are you making enemies with someone their first weekend working here? Someone hot at that? Don’t kill a girl’s chances,” Kelley replies, the corner of her mouth twisting into a smirk. “Besides, Alex got her hired and I’m pretty sure they’re banging.”

 

As though on cue, Ashlyn enters the bar, locking the front door behind her, shrugging her sweatshirt off and revealing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. _Asshole_. She strides to the bar like she owns it, and speaks just low enough to Alex that they can’t hear. When she glances down the bar and locks eyes with a scowling Ali, she turns instantly red.

 

“I hope I didn’t cause you to lose too much business,” she drawls, running her hand through her hair again.

 

“Losing ten minutes doesn’t make or break my truck,” Ali replies, curt. Kelley whistles low.

 

“ _Our_ truck, you mean,” Carm says, breezing in from the back and shaking Ashlyn’s hand. “I don’t think we were formally introduced. I assume your name isn’t actually ‘that bitch?’”

 

Ashlyn laughs, and it’s musical. And Ali hates it.

 

“No, no, my name is Ashlyn Harris. I’m a security specialist.”

 

“A bouncer. Is a more appropriate job title, right?” Carm says, one eyebrow raised. Ashlyn stays sheepish.

 

“I guess.”

 

“Nothing wrong with that, girl! Keeping the pretty girls back there safe.”

 

“For which we are eternally grateful,” Alex pipes up from where she’s wiping down underneath the bar with Kelley.

 

“I’d do anything for a pretty girl,” Ashlyn replies, her syrupy sweet.

 

Ali drains her glass, slamming it on the bar almost a little too hard.

 

“Are we all prepped for tomorrow?” she says, hopping out of her seat.

 

“We were prepped after lunch so we should still be fine,” Carm replies slowly.

 

“Well then I’m going to head out.” Ali pulls her bandana down around her neck, waving as she heads out the back, through the kitchen and to the truck, where she can pull her sweatshirt from the cab. It’s about a half mile walk home, to an empty studio apartment, but it’s got her bed and her closet and her _shower,_ which are really the only things she cares about. When she slams the truck door shut, shoving her keys in her pocket, Carm is waiting.

 

“Are you okay? This is a weird thing to get worked up over. It was an innocent mistake.”

 

“I don’t like getting second guessed,” Ali replies, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “But I also think I’m just exhausted. Long day.”

 

“Go get some sleep. You know I’ll be here around 3 tomorrow but we’re prepped so if you need a minute, don’t worry. You can’t get burned out on me.”

 

“I won’t.”


	2. back to back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> quick tw for homophobic language once at the end of this chapter, if that's something that troubles you.

Ali makes it home quickly, within fifteen minutes, and practically takes the steps two at a time to get to her apartment. She plugs in her phone, which has been dead far too long (a side effect of spending most of your day with the only people who try to call you), and she lets it charge as she hops in the shower. The band-aid on her freshest burn sticks, and she has to rip it off to clean with the hot water.

  
It takes her 45 minutes in the shower, with four shampoos, and layers and layers of body wash, to get the smell of pork and the makings of _Cubanos_ out of her pores. She tosses her clothes in the washing machine while still wrapped in a towel, having the process of getting post-food truck clean down to a science.

  
The hour or so between when Ali gets a chance to be actually, really clean and when she falls asleep every night is one of her most peaceful – second only to Sunday morning coffee before a day off. She wraps her hair in a towel, slipping into a bathrobe and grabbing her phone from its charger while pouring a glass of wine. 

  
She has three texts – all from her brother, Kyle. It takes a minute for her to answer them, and she scrolls through Facebook while she puts on the episode of How to Get Away with Murder she recorded the night before. She’s nodding off on her couch, considering foregoing bed altogether, when her phone buzzes again. Ali flips her phone, assuming it’s her brother, but surprised to find texts from an unknown number.

  _Hey. I’m really sorry about earlier. I should’ve asked before I got all high and mighty._

_A little too enthusiastic I guess._

_Would love to make it up to you? Buy you a drink and hear how someone as straight laced as you ended up on a food truck._

They keep coming.

 

_I hope that didn’t come out wrong._

_Also… this is Ashlyn. From the bar. I was a dick tonight, in case you forgot._

_Kelley gave me your number.  
_

It’s only after Ali watches them flow in and the small typing bubble ceases that she remembers she has her read receipts on. She types out what looks like quick response, putting too much weight into how nonchalant it sounds.  
  


_It’s fine, Ashlyn. You just caught me on an off day. Don’t worry about it.:)_

  
Ashlyn fires back before Ali’s done sending an explicitly angry emoji-laden text to Kelley.  
 

_Thanks._   
  


_And about that drink?  
_

Ali raises an eyebrow, forgetting for a second Ashlyn can’t see her.

   
 _Try again when I haven’t spent an evening royally pissed off at you._  
  


Ashlyn doesn’t answer, and Ali’s glad. Habitual double, triple, quadruple texters are annoying and unnecessary. Ali swipes mindlessly through Tinder, finishing her glass of wine before rising from the couch. She carefully hangs her bathrobe and sinks into bed, focusing on stretching every muscle in her body as she drifts to sleep.

\--

 

When your schedule is the reverse of every other living person you know, it’s hard to make friends. College friends, friends from jobs BFT (before food truck), sometimes even family, are shirked by the wayside while you spend all night flipping burgers and all day asleep. And when Ali pulls open her blackout curtains at noon, tugging a t shirt over her head, the world has been awake longer than she has been.  
 

Her roommate, Christen, is puttering around in the kitchen when Ali enters, rubbing her eyes and stretching.  
  


“Good morning, sunshine,” Christen says, jerking her chin at the coffeepot. “Still coffee in there if you want it.”  
  


“You’re perfect,” Ali replies, plodding to the coffeemaker and pouring herself a cup and fixing it with too much sugar.  
 

“How’s work?”  
  


“Busy. I’m exhausted,” she says, flexing her hands and feeling the callouses on them before checking the healing burn on her forearm. “Oh, and last night we had an altercation.”  
 

“Somebody get arrested in front of the truck again?” Christen leans forward on the couch, muting the soccer game she just turned on.  
 

“No, no but Abby hired a new bouncer who tried to get me to move in the middle of the fucking shift.”  
  


“The _nerve_ ,” Christen says, feigning outrage.  
 

“It was _annoying_! I had to go inside and prove that I was allowed to be there.”  
  


“Sounds like she was just doing her job.”  


“Well then last night she texted me to apologize. And offered to buy me a drink.”  
 

“How’d she get your number?”  
 

“Kelley.”  
 

Christen laughs. “I’m sure it was well intentioned.”  
  
Ali finishes her coffee too quickly, heading into her bedroom to change, pulling on jeans and a flannel before shoving her work clothes and wallet into a bag and pulling it over her shoulder.  
  


“Already out the door?” Christen yells from the couch.

  
“I have to go to the market before work. Thinking about putting a special on the board for dinner before we go to the campuses to sell for the night.”

\-- 

Ali could spend all day at the Farmer’s Market. In college, it was like a small solace, a way to find new things to cook and break up the monotony of on-campus meals. She shared a house with half the soccer team for her last year, and they’d pool money for her to come home with bags and bags of fresh vegetables. Now, it’s a special treat for her to go and pick up new things to try out for menu items. They rarely can afford to invest enough to make them full time menu items, but it’s fun to get out of the monotony once or twice a week.  
  


Carm is there when Ali arrives at the bar, filling the truck with gas and checking the burners to make sure they work.  
  


“How are you today, cranky?” she crows, as Ali locks her bike against a pipe beside the truck.  
  


“Better! I bought kale at the market, I’m going to make a special with gruyere and caramelized onions.”  
 

“Oh kale, the college kids will love that.”  
 

“At American and GW? You know it,” Ali says, laughing as she heads into the kitchen, pulling the kale from her bag and heading for the shelf in the walk-in reserved for the truck. The kitchen is slow, and she knows it will pick up as it grows closer to dinner time, so she begins to prep the special – which mostly entails chopping onions and kale and ignoring the tears streaming down her cheeks. She’s at it for twenty minutes before a voice comes from the doorway, causing her to jump.  
  


“Are you dreading the job that much?”  
  


 It’s Ashlyn, leaning against the doorway between the bar and the kitchen, arms folded and smirk plastered across her face.  
  


“You’re an ass,” Ali replies, switching on the burner to heat a pan.  
  


“I couldn’t resist,” Ashlyn says, laughing. “I’m sure it’s a joke you’ve heard a million times.”  
 

“A million and one now.”  
 

“What are you making? Carm told me you guys prep everything the day before.”  
 

Ali sighs, watching oil begin sizzling and popping in the pan. “I bought kale at the farmer’s market and want to make a special tonight.”  
  


Ashlyn wrinkles her nose. “Kale?”  


“Kale is delicious,” Ali replies, still not looking up from the pan.  
 

“You’re going to have to prove that to me.”

  
“You can buy a sandwich later, then,” Ali snaps. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be here? There’s no way anybody rowdy is here at 3PM on a Saturday.”  
 

“Better safe than sorry, that’s what I always say,” Ashlyn replies. “Plus Alex was coming in so I figured I’d just hitch a ride with her instead of coming later.”  
  


Ali is silent as she dumps her cutting board of onions into the popping pan. The room fills quickly with the smell of cooking onions, sweet and pungent at once.  
  


“Do you guys live near each other?” she asks, spreading the onions out as not to crowd the pan. Ashlyn’s silence is sheepish. “With each other?”  
  


“Well.”  
 

“I figured that’s how you got this job. Kelley told me she was pretty sure you were sleeping together anyway, so no use getting quiet now,” Ali says matter-of-factly, glancing up just to see how red Ashlyn is. There’s something satisfying about getting someone so chatty to shut up.  
  


“We’re very good friends who keep each other company sometimes,” Ashlyn says quietly.  
  


“I don’t blame you,” Ali replies, re-rolling the sleeves of her shirt. “I would have made a move on her way earlier if I knew she liked girls.”  
 

“I don’t think _she_ knew she liked girls until a few months ago,” Ashlyn says, folding her heavily tattooed arms across her chest. “I guess I’m just that life-changing.”  
 

“Guess so,” Ali says, rolling her eyes and redirecting her attention to the pan. Oil pops, and a few flecks land on her forearm. It burns, but not in an accidentally-laid-her-arm-across-the-flattop way, so she ignores it after a sharp intake of breath.  
 

“Doesn’t that hurt?”  
 

“I do this stuff every day. Eventually it doesn’t.”  
  


“Makes sense. That’s what PT used to feel like.”  
 

“PT?”  
  


“That’s military talk for physical training.”  
  


“Is dropping hints that you’re in the military part of your sex appeal?” Ali says, raising her eyebrows but not looking away from the pan. Ashlyn lets out a low whistle.  
  


“Not my sex appeal, but I’ve found talking about my experiences helps find common ground with new people which leads to making friends. Not sure if you’ve ever tried.”  
  


“Guess there’s a first time for everything. As long as I’m a captive audience.”  
 

Ashlyn chuckles. “You’re not captive, you could leave any time.”  
 

“I don’t like burning money.”  
 

“Well then I suppose you are a captive.”  
  


Ali moves the cooked onions from the pan to a hotel pan, where they’ll stay warm until the truck goes out. She sighs and looks up at Ashlyn, who is still leaning, but now on an empty counter. “I should make one of these before I serve it. Do you want half?”  
  


“Absolutely,” Ashlyn says, nodding enthusiastically and following Ali, who wordlessly heads out to the truck. She checks that the gas is on, then turns on the flat top, before turning to Ashlyn, whose slight frame is filling the space at the back of the truck between the small freezer and the deep fryers. There’s nothing for her to lean on, so she’s got her hands in her pockets, looking warily at the oil in the fryers to her left.  
 

“Those aren’t hot yet. I wouldn’t lean because they’re a little grimy but you’re not going to get burned back there,” Ali says, the corners of her mouth turning up. “Sometimes I forget not everyone does this. You can come up here, there’s nothing hot or greasy.” She points up towards the cab.    
 

Ashlyn visibly relaxes and strides up, sliding past Ali. They bump hips as she squeezes past, and Ashlyn apologizes instantly.  
 

“It’s fine, this is a small space,” Ali says, clearing her throat before moving to the stack of hotel pans she brought onto the truck. Chopped kale, cooked onions, and shredded gruyere cheese, as well as a butter roller (a fancy word for a hotel pan with a circular grater full of melted butter inside). She pulls a pair of gloves on and waves one hand over the flat top. It feels hot enough to melt the latex to her hand, so she pulls two pieces of bread from the bag above the counter, dragging it over the roller so it’s buttered before slapping it on the grill. She spreads cheese on both pieces, then covers both pieces while tossing kale on the flat top to cook. When it’s softened, she uncovers the bread and semi-melted cheese, and places the pre-cooked caramelized onions and kale on top. She covers it again, wiping down the area around the cover, then uncovering. She’s very careful, but flips the sandwich closed, pressing it down into the flat top before flipping it and pressing down again. Finally, she moves it to the cutting board, wraps it in wax paper, and slices it in half. That’s when she finally looks back up at Ashlyn, who has a lopsided grin on her face.  
  


“Holy shit.”  
  


“What?”  
 

“That was… you’re like a machine.”  
 

“I do this for a job,” Ali says, laughing and handing half the sandwich out to her. “I can usually do them even faster but I’m not in my groove yet.”  
  


“This is so good,” Ashlyn replies, already halfway through her half. “Do you make shit like this all the time?”  
  


“Maybe if you had read the menu last night before you tried to fight with me you’d know the answer to that.”  
 

Ashlyn throws her head back, groaning. “How many times am I going to have to apologize for that?”  
  


“I think I can take you complimenting my cooking as a final apology. Consider yourself warily forgiven. You're on thin ice though”  
  


“Oh thank God. I was worried I’d have to do something dramatic.”  
  


Ali laughs. “Nothing dramatic yet.”

\--

The beginning of the night runs smoothly, and Ali looks out the service window a few times to catch Ashlyn staring at her from the door as she waves people in. The special sells out, and Ali is smug to Carm when she pulls the special flyer down from the window.

 

“Told you these kids would love it.”

 

“Rich drunk people will eat anything with kale in it,” Carm replies as she pins a ticket up.

 

At around midnight, or what feels like midnight according to the customer flow, there’s a ruckus outside. Ali peaks through the window as the line dissipates and Ashlyn busts through the door with a drunk man in tow.

 

“Come on buddy, let’s get you in a car home.”

 

The man struggles against Ashlyn’s firm grip on his bicep, and she uses her free hand to pull her phone from her pocket and presumably pull up Uber. She’s barely breaking a sweat, or at least seems like it, and Ali can’t look away. Ashlyn looks up into the truck and notices Ali watching and jerks her chin up.

 

Maybe she was too gentle with him in the bar, too nice, mistakenly assumed he valued his untarnished legal record. But as Ashlyn escorts the large, poorly dressed DudeBro, he swings and hit her in just the right place, on the fragile cheekbone right below her eye socket. His follow through knocks her nose definitely out of place, and it takes her just a minute to readjust and knock him back, wrestling him to the ground with the help of another ex-Marine bouncer. 

 

The stand-up young man, once tackled to the ground, spits on Ashlyn’s shoes. “Get a real job you fucking dyke bitch!” Ashlyn’s in too much pain to come up with a witty retort, blood from the fresh cut below her eye dripping at the same pace as the blood from her surely broken nose. She slow jogs inside, leaving her coworker to hold the man until the cops arrive, kicking in the door to the kitchen and searching for a washcloth. 

 

The kitchen’s empty, since the food truck functions as the de facto kitchen after 11, so she nurses her wounds solo, trying to see how bad it is in her reflection on the dishwasher. Solo, that is, until Ali comes in through the back.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Ali says quietly when she sees the state Ashlyn’s in. Ashlyn grins. “At least he didn’t ruin my beautiful smile.”

 

“Yeah but he fucked up the rest of your face.” 

 

“Don’t hold back!” 

 

“Are you in pain?”

 

“Not yet. Adrenaline.”

 

“Do you think you will be in pain?”

 

“My nose is broken, Alex.”

 

And yes, she is in pain, twenty minutes later. So much pain she can’t help the tears welling up in her eyes from spilling out as Ali uses the first aid kit to tend to the cut that’s bleeding under her eye.

 

“You should get back to your truck,” Ashlyn sniffles, which makes her nose hurt even more.

 

“I can stay and take care of you.”

 

“I don’t want you to lose money.” 

 

“You’re a very sweet person.”

 

“I’m economically minded. I like you too much to let your business suffer.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. I think you’re really cute and nice and tough as nails and twice as sharp.”

 

“That’s very nice of you to say,” Ali laughs, closing the bottle of neosporin. “Are you complimenting me so I don’t tell people you’re crying?” 

 

“I’m complimenting you because I like you. I can prove it.”

 

“How are you going to prove it?” 

 

“I can prove it if you let me take you on a date.”

 

Ali laughs again, and it sounds like music. “If you ask me out again when your face isn’t fucked up and you aren’t crying, I will consider it.”

 

“You keep telling me to ask you out at different times. You can outright reject me, I’m not a man.”

 

“I’ve known you for two days, Ashlyn,” Ali laughs. “And neither of those days have been particularly good ones.”

 

“And we’ve already had our first fight and now you’re tending to my wounds.”

 

“And your face is all fucked up.”

 

“So you’ve said. I’m glad to know you only like me for my looks.”

 

“You come on very strong, has anyone ever told you that?”

 

“I don’t usually make such a terrible first impression.”

 

“You’ve made up for the bad impression. Don’t let that work you up. Now let’s get you to the hospital and fix that nose.”

 

\--

 

Alex takes Ashlyn to the hospital, and as they’re closing up later that night Ali gets a text with a picture of her bruised, swollen, but adjusted nose. It’s not a pretty sight, and at least one of Ashlyn’s eyes is going to be black, but she’s smiling. Ali sends her back a thumbs up emoji.

 

“So Ashlyn has asked me out twice in the last 24 hours,” Ali says to Carm. Carm spits her water out, wiping the edges of her mouth with her bandana.

 

“I know,” Ali laughs. “She asked me out while her fucking face was bleeding in the kitchen.”

 

“Well I’ll give her points for originality. Did you say yes?”  


“I said she needed to go get her nose set.”  
  


“Oof.”  
  


“Part of me thinks she’s doing it because she wants me to like her.”

   
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t climb her like a tree?”

 

“I’d snap her in half,” Ali laughs, thinking about how Ashlyn’s wiry frame barely filled the doorway of the truck.

  
“Kinky.”  
  


“Fuck you,” Ali laughs, elbowing Carm as they lock the truck up for the night. 

 

When Ali gets home, she showers as quietly as she can and slips into bed with wet hair, trying not to wake Christen. She opens her phone, typing and retyping before sending a text to Ashlyn.

 

_You get home ok? Still in the ER?_

Ashlyn answers fast.

 

_Yeah I’m home. Can’t sleep, but home._

_Did they give you drugs?_

_No, I didn’t want any._

Ali chews on her lip, contemplating something flirty before changing her mind.

 

_Well I hope you get to sleep soon._

She pauses, before texting again.

 

_You can even dream of me if you really want._

 

Ashlyn sends back a smirking emoji.

 

_Thank you for the concession in my time of need._


	3. It's getting late

Ashlyn doesn’t come in to work for a while, and Ali tries not to notice her absence. She also doesn’t text, and Ali tries not to notice that either. Not that Ali _wants_ her to text, because they’ve known each other all of ten days and Ali has turned her down for two dates already. Not that Ali spends an extraordinary amount of time thinking about how it may have been dumb to turn Ashlyn down twice. Not that Ali has written out and deleted five texts saying exactly that in a week’s time. One week after the incident, Ali sidles up to Alex when she steps out for her break, and clears her throat.

 

“So how’s Ashlyn?”

 

She shrugs, her aloofness almost palpable. “She’s okay. Resting up. Once those black eyes heal up she’ll be back.”

 

“Did they charge that guy?”

 

“I’ve heard it was a drunk and disorderly. He’ll get a fine and some community service.”

 

“Do you think Ashlyn’s doing okay?”

 

Alex raises her eyebrows. “I’m sure she’s fine. She hates not working but she loves bitching about how much she hates not working.”

 

“Do you think she’d want some company?”

 

“I’m pretty sure she’s been living off of Chinese food and potato chips for three days so she could probably use a good meal. I don’t know if she’s up to visitors though, she told me not to come over the other day.” It’s a _fuck off_ in way more words, and Ali feels it in her gut when Alex spins on her heel to head back inside.

 

Ali wipes her hands on the jeans clinging to her thighs, painfully aware of how filthy they’ve gotten, and pulls her phone from her pocket, finally swallowing her pride to send the first text.

 

_I heard you haven’t been eating right._

She checks the time, and it’s almost 1AM. And Ashlyn should definitely be asleep. Nevertheless, her phone buzzes in her hand before she’s climbed back onto the truck.

 

_Who spilled the beans?_

Ali grins, firing off a text before putting her phone away to address the growing pile of tickets.

 

_Can I bring you some real food later?_

 

It’s another hour and a half until she can check again, finishing serving the drunk stragglers who closed the bar and carrying a stack of hotel pans with one hand while pulling her phone from her pocket with the other. There’s three over the 90 minutes.

 

_I’ll stay up for you._

_You’re going to have to bring your own ingredients._

_I don’t cook enough for your fancy tastes._

 

“I think Ashlyn wants me to come over,” Ali says absently, not expecting Carm to actually be listening. But she realizes she is when the curls in the cab of the truck whip around.

 

“Like _come over_ like a booty call? Damn, I didn’t know she was that forward. Would you still fuck her with that black eye? Actually,” she pauses. “Don’t answer that. I’ve seen you fuck way worse.”

 

Bright red, Ali backpedals. “Jesus, no. Alex said she’s been eating like shit so I offered to cook. I didn’t expect her to actually say yes.”

 

“Nobody agrees to a meal at 3AM unless they’re trying to smash,” Carm says matter-of-factly. “But you should go. Prove me wrong.”

 

When the truck is finally almost clean, brick and oil spread and wiped off the flat top, fryers turned off and cooled down, and fridge restocked, Ali finally lets herself answer. She tucks her phone between her head and her shoulder as she heads out to the truck, listening to the tone on the other end as she ties the tops of the garbage bags shut. She’s about to give up when Ashlyn finally picks up, her voice thick with sleep. Pangs of guilt shoot through Ali’s gut immediately.

 

“Hey.”

 

“I thought you were up, I should’ve texted first.”

 

Ashlyn clears her throat, sounding closer to conscious when she speaks again. “No, I’m glad you called. Do you still want to come over?”

 

“Not if you’re sleeping,” Ali says, carrying the bags to the dumpster and praying to every deity they don’t split while she hauls them one handed over the edge.

 

“No, please. You’re good. Come over.”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

There’s sound on the other side of the line, and Ali realizes it’s probably Ashlyn rustling around in bed. There’s heat in her cheeks as she actively pushes the image from her head.

 

“I would kill for a sandwich but I know you guys are probably shut down by now.”

 

“I can bring the stuff over. You just need to supply the oven. You do have an oven, right?”

 

Ashlyn laughs. “I can’t tell you the last time it was used, but yeah. I’ll text you my address. Give me like half an hour to get decent?”

 

“Half an hour? You putting on a full face of makeup?” Ali says as she heads back into the bar, cleaning her hands in scalding hot water.

 

“Got a little straightening up to do! I didn’t mean to fall asleep so I’m way behind on making this place presentable.”

 

“Fine,” Ali replies, shouldering open the door from the kitchen to the bar.

 

“Hear you’re going to Ashlyn’s to bang,” Abby says immediately, and Kelley’s eyebrows are already at her hairline. Carm looks intently into the stacks of cash she’s counting. Ashlyn laughs on the other end of the line.

 

“I’ll text you my address and let you deal with that,” she says quickly. “See you soon.” _Click._

 

“I’m not doing that at _all,_ ” Ali says firmly, tucking her phone into her back pocket. “I’m going over to make her something to eat. I’m also raiding the kitchen before I go.”

 

“Make sure the pans are clean before you make anything,” Alex says icily, leaning on the bar beside Kelley. “Wouldn’t want you getting sick.”

 

Kelley’s grinning now. “What are you making? Make an aphrodisiac. Do you have any oysters in the truck? Peaches? Something that looks like pussy.”

 

She slips behind the bar, tugging a bottle of white from the cooler below the register and plunking a twenty on the bar, before shrugging. As quickly as she’s into the bar, she’s out, rummaging in the kitchen. She ends up pulling a few jalapenos, a package of cream cheese, a prick of cheddar, some green onions, and a loaf of sourdough bread. She tucks it into her duffel bag, finally checking her texts for Ashlyn’s address. It’s followed up with an offer to pay for her Uber, and then another saying that one is coming to pick her up at 3. And sure enough, as she’s making sure the truck is locked and safe to sit in one place all day Sunday, a white Focus pulls up, looking for Ashlyn.

 

“That’s me,” Ali says, pulling her bag over her shoulder and waving through the front window to her friends, still camped at the bar in the fluorescent lights advertising beer.

 

Ashlyn only lives about ten minutes away, and about five minutes into the trip Ali realizes she smells like food truck (grease and French fries and meat). It’s mostly in her clothes, from a few errant spills over the course of the night. There isn’t enough time to change destinations, and all Ali can do is text Ashlyn.

 

_I want to apologize in advance for the smell. The food truck smell._

Ashlyn answers quickly.

 

_My favorite!_

 

When the car pulls up, Ali hops out, her exhaustion replaced by a rush of adrenaline she can’t attribute to anything specific. She buzzes the apartment, and Ashlyn buzzes her up quickly. In the elevator, Ali checks to make sure she has everything she needs again – as though she could change anything now. When the doors open, Ashlyn’s leaning on the door frame of her apartment, slighter than Ali pictured when remembering the fight. She’s in a loose fitting tank top and sports bra (thank God) and a pair of gym shorts. As promised, her black eye is still there, albeit healing and more yellow than black.

 

“I thought you were getting dressed up for me,” Ali laughs as Ashlyn tugs her into a hug before recoiling.

 

“Anything is dressed up when you sleep naked. And I thought you were being dramatic about the food truck smell,” she laughs, and Ali tries to pass off her blush as about the latter comment. “Come in, you can change so I don’t have to smell you all night.”

 

“I don’t,” Ali starts, before Ashlyn cuts her off, carefully avoiding contact as she pulls the bag hanging from Ali’s arm.

 

“I have more sweatpants and t shirts than I will ever know what to do with. Don’t worry,” she says flippantly, striding into the apartment and leaving the door open.

 

Ali falters in the doorway, more surprised by the amount of _stuff_ Ashlyn has. Not like magazines strewn across the coffee table like Ali has, but record players and kitchen gadgets and books. It’s not messy, but Ali can’t help but wonder how she functions surrounded by so _much_ every day, how she finds anything. When Ashlyn looks back, bottle of wine in her hand, and sees Ali standing in place, she frowns.

 

“Are you a vampire? Do I need to invite you in?”

 

“No,” Ali laughs, stepping over the threshold. Ashlyn’s face splits into a grin. “That’s a relief. Now let me get you a change of clothes.”

 

When Ali finally moves herself from the spot in the doorway to the kitchen, pulling the groceries from the bag on the counter. She catches a glimpse of the clock, the 3:15AM blinking in neon green on the microwave. Ashlyn emerges from what must be her room, a pair of black sweatpants and a black t-shirt slung over her shoulder as she pulls the door shut behind her. She tosses them across the room and Ali catches them, but just barely.

 

“Smooth. Anything I can do while you change?”

 

“You can open the wine.”

 

“I can do that.”

 

Ali finds the bathroom, shucking her clothes for the sweats Ashlyn gave her. The clothes smell like detergent and Old Spice, which is far preferable to the caked on grease on her food truck clothes. When she emerges, Ashlyn’s on the couch, wine glass in her hand. Ashlyn doesn’t leer, but she does look Ali up and down as she heads back into the kitchen. Ali sips her wine, staring at the ingredients splayed across the counter and sighing.

 

“Are you really dead set on cooking? I’m sure I can Postmates something.”

 

“I came over to make you something that isn’t fast food.”

 

“But you’re exhausted.”

 

“But then I’ll have kept you up for nothing.”

 

“Hanging out with you isn’t nothing,” Ashlyn says, that sly grin spread across her face again.

 

“You’re too much,” Ali laughs.

 

Ashlyn smirks. “I expected it to happen in a different context but I don’t mind you here, in my clothes, in my apartment, at 3 in the morning.”

 

“You’ve got more charm than the law allows,” Ali replies, drawling purposely and rolling her eyes and sipping her wine again. “And I am going to start cooking.”

 

She gets to work, pulling a knife from the rack beside the refrigerator and finely chopping the jalapeno. “I need a skillet and a bowl.” Ashlyn hops up from the couch, digging through the cabinets and pulling a glass bowl and skillet out. She puts the skillet on the stove and place the bowl beside Ali’s cutting board. Ali takes a minute to check and make sure they’re clean, trying to be subtle.

 

“So what are we having?” Ashlyn says, Ali painfully aware of how close she is. “What can I help with?”

 

“Jalapeno grilled cheese,” Ali says. “You don’t have to help with anything.”

 

Ashlyn plods back to the couch, staring over the kitchen island at Ali, who is decidedly _not_ looking at Ashlyn.

  
“So they really thought this was a booty call?”

 

“I guess they did,” Ali says, focusing harder on mixing the peppers with the cream cheese than is necessary.

 

“Well,” Ashlyn sighs, cracking her knuckles in the uncomfortably quiet apartment. “I won’t lie and say I didn’t at first.”

 

Ali rolls her eyes, cocking one hip and finally looking up. “You’re a piece of work.”

 

“I’m just honest,” Ashlyn replies, shrugging. “I didn’t think a chef actually wanted to come cook again after work. Especially with the sun due up in a few hours.”

 

“Yeah well. I’m off tomorrow.”

 

“Even better,” Ashlyn says, raising an eyebrow.  
  


She finally turns away from Ashlyn to turn on the skillet, melting butter on the surface before building the sandwich (bread, spread, cheese) and plopping it on the grill, pressing it down and listening to the satisfying hiss.  
  


Ashlyn stays quiet while she finishes cooking, moving from her spot on the couch to refill her glass and pull plates from the cupboard. When Ali slices the sandwiches, and puts them on the plate, she hands one off the Ashlyn before picking up her wine and following her around the island onto the couch. She waits, as she always does, for Ashlyn to try the sandwich first. Ashlyn’s reaction is borderline orgasmic – or at least what Ali would imagine would be orgasmic (not that Ali has imagined Ashlyn orgasmic, which she definitely has not, especially not two days after the fight).

 

“Al this is awesome,” Ashlyn says around bites, and Ali tries to keep the smug satisfaction she always gets from surfacing as she eats her own.

 

“I’m glad you like it.”

 

“So what’s this now,” Ashlyn says, looking up wistfully. “First fight, you’ve tended to my wounds, and now you’ve cooked for me. This relationship is getting pretty serious.”

 

Ali laughs. “God, you’re persistent. Don’t text me for a week after I wipe your tears and snot and then hit on me again.”

 

“I can take a no,” Ashlyn says, doing what must be her best impression of sincerity. “I think you’re really cool and I would like to take you out. _But_ I thought you showed your disinterest when you didn’t text me either so I figured I’d let it go. So I figured we’d be work friends. And then you texted tonight. Which could’ve been just a friendly offer, but for some reason I talked myself into thinking it wasn’t.”

 

Shifting in her seat and taking a sip of her wine, Ali tries to clear her head. “You’ve known me for just over a week.”

 

“I am a very good judge of character. I guess the only thing I worry about is that you’ve told me no and I haven’t realized it and have thought you’re flirting with me.” She shrugs, her plate balanced between her legs.

 

“I haven’t rejected you,” Ali says softly. “I just don’t know if I want to start something with someone I barely know _and_ work with. Who I don’t even know if I like that much.”

 

Ashlyn laughs. “Ouch, okay, valid.” She gets up, bringing her empty plate into the kitchen and placing it in the sink. She runs a hand through her hair, stretching backwards just enough that a sliver of her stomach peeks out. Ali tries, and fails, not to stare, and Ashlyn smirks when she notices.

 

“See, you say ambiguous stuff like what you said and then you do shit like stare at me when I stretch and come over at 3AM to drink and make dinner and that’s when I get confused. Part of me thinks we should just fuck and get it out of your system so you can figure out if you hate me but think I’m hot.”

 

“Ashlyn,” Ali says sternly, trying to ignore the heat in her stomach. Ashlyn shrugs, striding back into the living room and sipping her drink. “I’m just saying. You told me I could think of you last week, which I fully took advantage of. And I feel like I should return the favor.”

 

“How’s that?” Ali says, working actively to keep her voice steady. It’s not the wine, she’s sure of this. It’s the woman in front of her being unabashedly forward.

 

“Well. I could show you what I was thinking about the other night to help me sleep. See if it helps you sort out your feelings.”

 

The corner of Ashlyn’s mouth tics up, and Ali downs the end of her wine, placing her glass on top of her plate but not moving to stand.

 

“You can stay there,” Ashlyn says, her voice low. “If you want.”

 

She slides over Ali, somehow avoiding contact to sit beside her. “Do you want?”

 

Ali looks at the dishes on the table, considering insisting on cleaning them. But instead she swallows hard, nodding.

 

“Come here,” Ashlyn murmurs, and Ali shifts closer, so close their thighs are touching. Then she laughs nervously. “There’s no non-awkward way to do this.”

 

She reaches around Ali’s shoulders and Ali lets her pull her in gently. There’s strength in her arms, Ali has seen it every time she’s flexed in too tight t-shirts, but this move is soft, giving freedom to Ali to stop it at any time. She doesn’t, and eventually she’s tucked tight to Ashlyn. She smells like Old Spice and detergent, just like her clothes, and something almost flowery.

 

“So,” Ashlyn says quietly. “What do you want to watch?”

 

Ali looks up, and Ashlyn laughs. “This is what I was thinking about the other night. Being close to you, watching a movie or something while I iced my poor face. But the poor face doesn’t need icing anymore. Regardless, very platonic.”

 

“I thought-”

 

“You really think I was rubbing one out after getting clocked in the face?” Ashlyn’s still laughing. “I’m glad you think I’m so ambitious.”

 

She turns on a true crime documentary while Ali adjusts to the position, her desire to feel relieved almost drowned out by disappointment.

 

“You’re soft as hell,” Ali murmurs into her chest about half an hour in, Ashlyn’s fingers tracing patterns on her bicep. “I can’t believe I thought you were so tough when you knocked on the door.”

 

“It’s the tattoos,” Ashlyn replies simply. “And I’m very tough. Just not on pretty girls.”

  
"Only on the frat boys who try to punch you?"

  
"Now you're getting it."  
  


Ali wakes up a few hours later, when the sun cracks through the blinds, strewn out on the couch, a blanket over her and a pillow under her head. The TV is off and the dishes sitting on the table the night before are gone. She sits up straight, taking stock of the room, her clothes, etc. before checking the clock on her phone and ignoring the twenty texts from the bar’s group chat. When she reads the time – 7AM – she starts to get up, trying to stay quiet. As she finishes shoving her clothes into the bag she brought the food in and slipping her shoes on, Ashlyn cracks the door of her bedroom.

 

“Have a good day,” she says, her voice thick with sleep again. “Thanks for hanging out last night. You’re a good friend.”

 

Nodding, Ali slips out the front door, all but sprinting to the elevator as she orders her Uber. Friend.


	4. quick enough

Ali sleeps for another six hours when she gets home, after taking a ridiculously hot shower. When she’s clean, she puts Ashlyn’s clothes back on and slips into bed. When she texts her phone, Ashlyn’s texted because of course she has.

 

_You looked cute in my clothes. I meant to tell you that before you left. I liked looking at you._

 

Ali chews on her lower lip, typing and deleting before she texts back.

 

_I’m glad I can provide you with hot friends to look at._

 

Sunday afternoon, Carm and Ali come in to do prep for Monday’s lunch service. They do it quietly as they always do, music playing as they chop, clean, and cook what they can. It’s a peaceful tradition to recenter after a hectic week. Kelley pokes her head into the door of the kitchen halfway through the afternoon.

 

“You guys want anything to drink? We’re running low on that IPA you like, Carm, and I’ll hold it for you if you want for after you’re done.”

 

“That would be amazing, you’re an angel,” Carm all but sings. They load the walk-in, Ali putting more burn cream on the fresh one she got cooking bacon. Ali puts on an old flannel over her work shirt and heads into the bar. Alex and Kelley are both working, more or less only talking to each other and not the four patrons in the bar.

 

“So we were talking,” Alex says as soon as they sit down. “Do you guys do anything besides work? Like we get nights off but the two of you are here every night and on the campuses every afternoon.”

 

“Every day except Sunday!” Carm pipes. “It’s not cheap to run a truck and we just started making profits so we do as much as we can.”

 

“We’re definitely considering hiring a couple people though,” Ali says. “We just have to see our accountant first.”

 

“And Ali won’t let anyone make her recipes she doesn’t trust.”

 

“No days off,” Kelley says, sipping the glass of water she keeps under the bar.

 

“So you guys have no social lives?” Alex asks, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t mean that in a rude way.” Ali has a strong feeling that second part is a lie.

 

“I see my roommate,” Ali says, shrugging. “This job isn’t really conducive to…”

 

“Girlfriends?” Alex speaks over her.

 

“Girlfriends, sure,” Carm says, sipping her beer and clearing her throat. “Is Abby coming in today?”

 

“Not today,” Kelley says. “She’s out with that patron.”

 

Carm’s eyes go wide with disbelief. “She _closed_?”

 

“I guess we’ll hear about it tomorrow!”

 

Ali gets up, finishing her drink and stretching. “I’m going to go check the books. We’ll move out around 6?”

 

“We will,” Carm laughs.

 

On the way out, Kelley trails her, following her out behind the building. “You are not imagining Alex being weird.”

 

“I didn’t think I was,” Ali says, shrugging. “But if she wants to get weird about the prospect of her fuck buddy having a friend, that’s not my problem. Maybe you should distract her.”

 

“You know I’d love to,” Kelley laughs. “But I think she’s just territorial.”

 

“Exactly your type.”

 

“Her and Ashlyn dated for a while when Ashlyn was just getting out of the military and stayed friends but as far as I know they still keep each other warm in the cold months.”  


“I have never seen someone get that fucking weird about someone befriending their ex.”

 

“Ali you know you’re the only person who thinks the two of you are going to be friends. You’ve got that whole enemies to lovers, I hate that I love you, let’s angry fuck thing going on.”

 

“We do _not_.”

 

“You absolutely do. And that’s fine, those are some of the best fucks to have. But Jesus don’t let this go on too long or it’s going to get annoying to work here and listen to the two of you chirp at each other. And it’s going to suck for Alex.”

 

Ali climbs into the cab of the truck, reaching into the glove compartment to pull the notebook full of finances out. “Thank you for your input, Kel.”

 

“I’m just being honest.”

 

“I appreciate it.”

   
\--

 

Ashlyn comes back to work on Monday, and she’s already there when Ali arrives to open up the truck and drive it over to the campuses.

 

“Nice to see you back on the job,” Ali says, trying to ease the tightness out of her voice.

 

“Thank you, I’m happy to be back,” Ashlyn replies, grinning. “How’s things? How was your day off?”

 

“Things are good, day off was good. Restful. I washed your clothes, I can give them back.”  


“Yeah, next time you come over.”  


“Cool, yeah,” Ali says. “Which will be?”

 

“Someone’s a little presumptuous.” There’s that lopsided grin again.

 

Carm calls from the cab of the truck. “Hey kids, can I grab Ali so we can get going?”

 

The college rush is just that, and Ali barely has time to change her gloves over the four hours spend pressing sandwiches and dropping fries. When she finally has a minute, her gloves are stuck, and she has to shake them off into the garbage.

 

“So,” Carm says, cracking the seal on a bottle of water and tossing it to Ali. “Saturday night seems like it went well.”

 

Ali shrugs. “We had a nice time. I fell asleep on her couch.”

 

“That’s… lame,” Carm laughs, crumpling the tickets still hanging up and putting them in the trash. “Who goes to someone’s house in the middle of the night and then falls asleep on their couch.”  


“Well I _thought_ things were going to go different than they did,” she replies. “When she got hurt she said she couldn’t sleep and I told her she could think of me.” She turns to the flat top, wiping it down so Carm can’t see her blushing. “And then she told me that she did. And offered to show me how.” She turns again to face Carm, whose jaw is dropped.

 

“She didn’t.”

 

“She did,” Ali replies, slamming a hand on the counter. “So then I said yes, and she sidles up to me and touches my leg and I think she’s going to kiss me so I lean in. And then she wraps her arm around me and we cuddle.”

 

“You cuddled.”  


“We cuddled. Until I fall asleep.”

 

“No fucking way,” Carm says, laughing as she wipes her forehead with her bandana. “She was fucking with you.”

 

“I don’t know, maybe she’s just really cute,” Ali replies.

 

“She is _not_ really cute. She checks out your ass through the window of the truck, dude.”

 

Ali chugs her water, taking time to process. Carm keeps talking. “She thinks you’re hot. I heard Alex complaining about it the other day. I bet she has a kink for getting yelled at. Which would be fitting for you.”  


“Oh my God,” Ali groans, tossing the bottle into the trash.

 

“Try to bone and see what happens. I bet you she’ll bite.”

 

Ali hops out of the truck, bringing in the garbage can and turning the gas for the stove off as Carm turns the truck on. She slams on the side, making Ali jump half out of her skin “Let’s get going so you can see your girl!”

 

“Not my girl,” Ali yells back, grinning as she gets in the cab.

 

When they return, business is starting to pick up around the bar, and Ashlyn is checking IDs nonchalantly, making conversation with anyone who chooses to pause. She reaches up to wave as they go by to park behind the building.

 

“She’s so happy to see you,” Carm coos as they carry hotel pans out of the back. “Go plant one on her.”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” Ali replies, tugging her bandana down so it falls around her neck. The kitchen of the bar is buzzing, and Ali maneuvers around the cooks to dump the pans and put them in the dishwasher while Carm pulls the prep they did on Sunday from the walk-in. It takes twenty minutes to load, and Carm checks her watch when everything is scrubbed down.

 

“We’ve got a couple of hours until we open back up, you can go make out with your buddy.”

 

Ali pulls her phone from her pocket, her hands dry from the gloves she’s been wearing all afternoon, and fires a text to Ashlyn.

 

_You busy?_

_Never for you._

_Come around back?_

 

Ali heads outside to wait, Carm laughing at her attempts to be surreptitious. “Please don’t fuck in the cab.”

 

“You’re disgusting,” Ali replies, lewdly gesturing as she leaves. Ashlyn makes her way around the corner, her hands in her pockets and t-shirt sleeves rolled up.

 

“Hey you,” she says, that lopsided grin splitting across her face. “How are you? How was the rush?”

 

“I’m good,” Ali breathes. “It was good.”

 

“Good. So I wanted to talk about something.”

 

Ashlyn pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Sounds ominous.”

 

“Today Carm told me something kind of interesting.”

 

“Oh?” The grin’s dropped off Ashlyn’s face. “Something good I hope.”

 

“Well she told me she’s caught you looking at my… butt.”

 

“At your butt?” Ashlyn laughs.

 

“At my butt. And that you were probably bluffing when you pulled that cuddling shit on Saturday night.”

 

Ashlyn licks her lips, running her hand through her hair. “And?”

 

“I wanted to ask if that’s true.”

 

“Do you want it to be true?” Ashlyn says, stepping a little closer.

 

“I wouldn’t really mind. But I’d appreciate if you choose whether you’re going to call me your friend or stare at my ass.”

 

“I can’t stare at my friends? Didn’t you say I’m supposed to look at my hot friends?”

 

Ali rolls her eyes. “Is this what we’re going to do? Banter back and forth? Because I didn’t come out here to chirp each other.” Ashlyn leans against the wall, folding her arms in what Ali’s sure she thinks is a cool pose.

 

“Then what did you come out here to do?”

 

“Take a wild guess,” Ali says, cocking her hip. Ashlyn stands up straight, closing the space between them and pinning her, gently, to the back wall. She slots her let between Ali’s, smirking when she sees how wide Ali’s eyes have gone.

 

“Warm or cold?”

 

“Hot,” Ali breathes, pulling Ashlyn in by the back of her neck to kiss her. She tastes like mint chewing gum, and opens her mouth almost immediately to deepen the kiss, sliding one hand up behind Ali’s head so it doesn’t hit the brick when she tilts it back. Ali slides her hands down Ashlyn’s chest, trying to calm herself down when she feels Ashlyn’s muscles through her t-shirt.

 

“See,” Ali breathes when they split. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to do that on Saturday instead of being a little shit?”

 

“You always seem like you’re in a bad mood after work,” Ashlyn replies, shrugging. “I figured I’d catch you on a day off eventually.”

 

“You were going to make me wait another _week_ to kiss you.”

 

“Just trying to make sure I’m reading the mood right.”

 

“You’re reading the mood right.”

 

“Cool,” Ashlyn says, kissing her again. “So even though you’re annoyed all the time, you’re into me.”

 

“I’m not _always_ pissed off,” Ali laughs into the kiss, while Ashlyn presses into her, moving her knee just enough that Ali whimpers.

 

“Noted.” Ashlyn pulls away fully, leaving her exposed against the wall. “So you should go inside and I should go back to work. And then maybe tonight after work if you’re not exhausted you should come home with me.”

 

“We have to stop this now?”

 

Ashlyn wrinkles her nose. “You smell like food truck and there’s a dumpster like, right there.”

 

“I brought a change of clothes.”

 

“That’s what I like to hear.”

 

“Have a good rest of your night,” Ali says, smirking.

 

“Thank you,” Ashlyn says, smirking. “Try not to think about me too much.”

 

When Ali walks back through the kitchen to the bar, Carm whoops. “I know that look!” Ali shushes her. “Relax.”

 

“Was I right?”

 

“Yes, you were right,” Ali says, her voice hushed.

 

“Did you fuck in the truck? Against the wall? Against the _dumpster_? Ali, come on.”

 

“Was I gone nearly long enough for that?” Ali exclaims.

 

“I don’t know how fast she is!” Carm exclaims as Kelley meanders over.

 

“How fast who is? Ashlyn? I haven't heard that.”

 

“ _Kelley._ ”

 

“Oh thank God,” Kelley exclaims. “Although I didn’t think it would only take one day of goading for you to do something about it.”

 

“ _I_ did the goading,” Carm says indignantly.

 

“It was a dual effort,” Ali replies, rolling her eyes.

 

“You’re welcome,” Kelley says, grinning. “And you’re lucky Alex isn’t here today.”

 

“We made out one time, we’re not getting married. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal yet.”

 

“Well, don’t tell her that,” Kelley says, raising her eyebrows. Ali lets Carm and Kelley chat while she drinks her one beer, watching the minutes pass slowly until she meanders to the back of the kitchen, bringing the bottle with her.

 

“Can I have a burner?” she asks one of the cooks, who nods before going back to checking his phone. Ali pulls a pepper and an onion from the walk-in, chopping them almost mindlessly before dropping them in an oiled pan, cooking them until the smell and the sizzle fills the kitchen. When the onions are clear and the peppers soft, she cracks an egg into a coffee cup, pouring a little milk in and whisking until the yolk is combined. She pours it over the eggs and peppers, sprinkling a handful of cheese and a squirt of hot sauce over the mix. She mixes them until the scramble is fully cooked, then dishes it on to a plate and scrubs down the pan, leaving it in the drying rack. Ali grabs a plastic fork and heads outside. She sits on the back lip of the truck, trying to ignore the dramatics of it all, to eat, grinning when she hears Ashlyn’s loud laugh from around the corner of the building.


	5. whole lovely you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello :)

“You know it’s crazy,” Ashlyn says, and she’s grinning the way she always does at girls at the door. Ali can hear her through the window, and it’s slow enough that she can listen after dropping fritters in the deep fryer.

  
“What’s crazy?” the girl – definitely under 21 – sings back at her. She’s up on her toes, definitely trying to flirt her way into a seedy dive bar she probably won’t pay for a drink in all night. She bats her eyelashes, and Ashlyn is clearly biting back a laugh. 

  
“Your ID says you have blue eyes,” Ashlyn replies, holding the ID up like it’s hard to judge. “But you look like you actually have brown eyes.”

  
The girl flushes, and her flirty act drops.

  
“You know possession of a fake ID is a crime, right?” Ashlyn says. “This could get you in a lot of trouble if you went to the wrong place with it.”

  
The girl mumbles something Ali can’t make out, and Ashlyn places a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  
“I’m not going to call the cops. I’m going to hang on to this though. That okay?”

  
She looks like she wants to melt into the pavement, and no number of kind looks from Ashlyn will keep her from being embarrassed in front of her friends, but she slinks away, her heels clicking on the sidewalk.

  
When Alex comes outside for air shortly after, she leans into Ashlyn during a lull. She speaks too quietly for Ali to hear, but Ashlyn is loud as always, even as Alex touches her shoulder to quiet her down.

  
“You’ve got to see this,” Ashlyn says just loud enough for Ali to hear, pulling the ID out of her pocket. “It’s not even close.”

  
She tucks it away again, and Ali tries to focus on anything but the sound of Ashlyn’s voice ringing across the sidewalk.

\--

 Ashlyn barely waits until they’re in the car, leaning across the steering console to kiss Ali as soon as the passenger door is closed. The way she wrinkles her nose is almost imperceptible. Almost. When Ali pulls away, Ashlyn is already laughing.

  
“That bad?” Ali says, sheepish and reaching for the door handle. “I can shower, we can do this another time.”

  
“No no no no,” Ashlyn says, reaching across Ali’s body the best she can. “If you’re going to be self conscious about it you can shower at my house.” She clears her throat. “If you want.”

  
“Are you sure?”

  
“Yeah, absolutely. I have sweats and stuff you could change into.”

  
“This already sounds promising. I love when the girls I want to sleep with offer me sweatpants.”

  
“Not like that,” Ashlyn sighs, running her hand through her hair, pushing it back. The gel that held her hair in place has stopped working, and strands are drooping into her eyes. “I just want you to be comfortable.”

  
“I’m comfortable,” Ali says, smiling as gently as she can manage. “I just want you to take me home with you. We can figure out the rest later.”

  
Ashlyn grins, one hand frozen in her hair. “Okay.” She presses the ignition, and wiggling her eyebrows when it roars to life. She isn’t a bad driver, but she drives fast. It would be closer to reckless if she didn’t take care to use her turn signal. She keeps one hand firmly on the gear shift and the other on the wheel, knuckles white.

  
“You nervous?” Ali asks, teasing, as Ashlyn parks the car out front.

  
“A little bit. I didn’t straighten up before I left.”

  
“That’s what you’re nervous about?”

  
“I’m pretty good at all the rest of this stuff,” Ashlyn says, smug. Ali’s the first out of the car, too nervous to wait for Ashlyn to come around. When Ashlyn catches up, she tugs on the belt loops of Ali’s jeans to pull her snug against her body. Her hands are big, and fit easily around Ali’s waist as she kisses the back of her neck.

  
“You really are nervous aren’t you?” Ashlyn laughs into her neck, fiddling for her keys in her pocket.

  
“Not too nervous,” Ali breathes. “Just didn’t come to work expecting it.”

  
“Makes sense.”

  
Ashlyn finally finds her keys, unlocking the door and trudging up the stairs to her apartment with Ali trailing behind.

  
“You know where the shower is,” Ashlyn says, making a beeline for her room and emerging quickly with yet another pair of sweatpants and a tshirt.

  
"Where do you get all these?” Ali asks, unfurling them and reading _To Write Love On Her Arms_ on the leg.

  
“For the most part I buy them. My job pretty much only requires me to wear jeans and black shirts so my wardrobe is pretty limited.”

  
“So if I actually wanted to take you on a date, you wouldn’t have anything to wear?”

  
“I didn’t say that,” Ashlyn laughs. “You should see what I’ve got in here.” She jerks her head towards her room. “You’d be blown away by my gorgeous collection of suits.”

  
“Can you show me?” Ali says, taking a couple steps towards Ashlyn’s room.

  
“Do you want to shower first?”

  
Ali turns red, realizing for the thousandth time tonight alone that maybe the smell of food truck is more present on her than she even notices at this point.

  
“You can use my shampoo,” Ashlyn calls from behind the door while Ali’s undressing. There’s something weirdly intimate there – something far more established than the precursor to a one night stand. “It’s Old Spice so you’ll smell like dude until you wash it again.”

  
“So much for subtlety,” Ali calls back, and Ashlyn’s laugh is barely audible on the other side.

  
It takes all of Ali’s personal fortitude not to snoop. She’s not one for opening medicine cabinets – what’s in there is usually far too personal for a one night stand to learn about. But while the shower runs and she waits for it to heat up, she spots patterns she missed the night before.

  
Two sets of towels.  
Two toothbrushes.  
A squeeze bottle of product for “long, luscious hair” – which Ashlyn certainly does not have.

  
She’s not mad so much as surprised – half at herself for not seeing it the other night but mostly at Ashlyn for running some sort of long con. Either she’s got a girl or she keeps the apartment stocked in case of a one night stand. Ali doesn’t particularly like either option very much.

  
It’s more important to stop stinking like bacon and cheese and over-fried grease, so she showers and takes her time, scrubbing down until the layer of grime that inevitably builds up over the course of the night. Ashlyn’s shampoo and conditioner smells distinctly like _man_ and after she takes her time drying off, she realizes Ashlyn’s clothes smell basically the same.

  
Ali wraps her hair up in a tight bun, ignoring the fact that it’s not good for her hair to keep it up while wet, and flips the fan on before exiting the bathroom.

  
“So uh,” she says, trying not to look directly at Ashlyn’s back to her, shoulders stretching her one size too small t-shirt. “What’s the deal with all the stuff in the bathroom?”

  
Ashlyn spins on the couch, almost spilling the glass of water she’s cradling.

  
“My clothes still look so good on you,” she says, her grin adorably crooked.

  
“Seriously Ash,” Ali replies, cocking one hip and tugging the hem of her shirt down over the waistband of her sweatpants. “Do you have a roommate or what?”

  
“I told you,” Ashlyn sighs, running her free hand through her hair. “Sometimes Alex and I keep each other company.”

  
“Often enough for her to have a toothbrush here?”

  
“We’re not _girlfriends_ ,” Ashlyn says, standing up now. “It’s just good manners to give someone stuff when they spend the night.”

  
“Do I get one too?” Ali says, and there’s a far sharper edge than she intended. “How often do we have to keep each other company before I get my own set of towels?”

  
“I don’t really get why you’re so pissed,” Ashlyn replies. “It’s not like we’re girlfriends either.”

  
“I’m not pissed, Ashlyn. I just don’t know how I feel about like. This.”

  
“Listen,” Ashlyn says, squaring her shoulders and spreading her hands. “Maybe I should’ve cleaned up a little bit before you came but I wasn’t exactly expecting to get pinned in a grimy fucking alley behind the bar and kissed. And considering you rejected actually going _out_ with me not once but twice-”

  
“I didn’t come here to fucking fight with you! I came here because I thought maybe we could be important to each other. Not to be a casual fuck and I thought maybe that was obvious based on the fact I didn’t take you up the first two times.”

   
“I didn’t expect you to come here and fight with me either, honestly.”

   
“Maybe I just wanted you to like,” Ali sighs. “Tell me about your relationship with Alex and what things actually are. So that I’m not standing in your bathroom anticipating fucking you just to find out another person has a toothbrush and hair gel in your apartment.”

   
“Well,” Ashlyn replies, plopping back down on the couch again, water sloshing on the leather. “Alex and I met at one of the bars she works at on her days off. Years ago. She was really seriously with a guy for a while, we connected after she broke up. After like a year we were both drunk and at the club and came home together.”

   
Ali can’t help but imagine it, the way Ashlyn probably moves to the music and held Alex to her before asking her to come home. There’s something in her gut that could resemble jealousy, could just be hunger. She tries not to actually react, and Ashlyn doesn’t say anything before she continues.

   
“We’re compatible. Not dating compatible at all, but we get along in bed. So when we’ve both been single, we get together. It’s been like that recently, and I live closer to work than she does, so she has some stuff here. That’s it.”

  
“Is she going to be weird about this?”

  
“Probably,” Ashlyn says, shrugging. “But that’s for Alex and me. It’s not between you guys. And I’ll take care of it.”

  
“I don’t want to ruin a friendship for you,” Ali sighs.

  
“No, you won’t.” Ashlyn’s on her feet again, crossing the room in a few long, loping strides. She grabs Ali by the shoulders, and she _definitely_ reapplied that manly deodorant while Ali was in the shower. “And I like you. I mean I don’t feel like we know everything about each other yet and I certainly wasn’t planning to get to know you after fucking you but. You’re a fiery, snarky, jerk but you’re also sweet and kind and the best cook I’ve ever met.”

  
“Chef.”

  
“The best chef I’ve ever met,” Ashlyn corrects, gently. “And I’d like to see you. Not like. Take you home from work to have sex with you. Or not just that. But take you on dates and stuff.”

  
“So maybe we don’t do this tonight,” Ali says. “Maybe we just get to know each other. Plan a date.”

  
“Yeah, I can do that,” Ashlyn replies, leaning in slowly and kissing Ali very gently.

  
Ali knows she’s supposed to pull back, to gently place her hands on Ashlyn’s and sit down on the couch with her. But she doesn’t. She leans in, kissing Ashlyn a little harder just to see how Ashlyn reacts. Ashlyn responds how she wants, slides her hands down from Ali’s shoulders to her hips, closing the small amount of space between them. She slots her leg between Ali’s and pushes up in a single, smooth movement, smirking a little bit when Ali lets out an embarrassing whimper.

  
“You’ve got to make up your mind here,” Ashlyn murmurs, and Ali grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)))))

**Author's Note:**

> Hello we are back. Give me your FEELINGS. I missed you so.
> 
> Bonus points if you can figure out where the title/chapter titles come from.


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